Plechazunga

Stave Two

A cold fear crept over Slabberneezer, not unlike the kind he experienced whenever Spurs went 2-0 up before half-time. redmarlie? But he was supposed to be…he dared not even say the word. Like a man digging his own grave, he clicked on the “read message now” button.

“Slabberneeeeeeeeeeezer…” said redmarlie, “Slabberneeeeeeeeezer Scroooooooge. Whaaat…have you…BECOME?”
Slabberneezer swallowed back his fear.
“redmarlie…” he croaked, “I thought you were dead…didn’t your throat explode?”
“Not dead…” replied the wraith, “Just ghosted…and told to stay off the spirits…as it were…condemned to walk these rooms, seen by no-one, witnessing the harm done to one poster by another, the lack of kindness and simple human decency, but unable, alas, to intervene.”

Slabberneezer by now was in a state of terror.
“B-but what’s it got to do with me, g-g-gaytard?” he stammered.
“With you?” replied the undead Ulsterman. “Than whom no-one is a worse offender? What do you do here, Slabberneezer? You go around all day, calling people names, derailing threads. There’s good people on here, intelligent people…well, definitely good people anyway…there’s people on here…with stories and experiences that would amaze you, if only you’d listen. There’s a chance for life, for growth, for reaching out across the gulf of fear that separates us all, one from another…that prevents us truly touching each other.”

“You sound like French Henry,” said Slabberneezer “You bummer.”
redmarlie shook his finger, using the rubbish little “nono” smilie.
“That won’t work on me, sunshine. I have come here to warn you. Slabberneezer, you must change your ways, before it is too late. Listen carefully: you will be visited three times tonight, by three Spirits. The first will come at one o’clock. Be ready….be…feck me I could do with a drink…ready…”

And with that, he vanished! (Though if you clicked on his name at the top, you could see he was in the General, starting a thread about what style of architecture is the nicest to bone birds in).

Slabberneezer was so unnerved by the apparition of redmarlie, that for the next hour he could barely concentrate on playing Championship Manager, screening his calls, boozing, pasting his friends’ private emails all over the net, and calling the mad bloke from the flat downstairs a spastic. But soon the fateful Hour drew nigh, and once again the screen was washed in a ghostly luminescence. The first Spirit was come! Slabberneezer waited in wide-eyed suspense, for this messenger from the netherworld to speak. When it did, its words were cryptic:

“Yo, yo, hear me now!” quoth the Spirit, “Word up, this is some raw supernatural shit, blasting off in 2005. I’m about to blow da fuck up, bitches, all upside your muthafuckin heads, like BLAM!…BLAAAH!”
“Er, do I know you?” asked Slabberneezer, “You appear to be some kind of retard.”
“I am da Spirit of Christmas Past,” said the ghost.
“That’s a really shit name,” said Slabberneezer.
At this the ghost became indignant. “Yeah, well I fucked your mamma up the ass,” he wailed. “She was so damn fat….Er, look, I’m supposed to show you how da Caf was in da old days, n shit, but if you like we could have a sponsored sparring match instead…in Hull?”

Tempting proposal though this was, Slabberneezer declined. Since he remained surprisingly unreceptive even when the option of headgear was introduced, the Spirit gave up and agreed to fulfil his intended role, as guide to the Caf of old.

Glancing at the date on the main page, Slabberneezer got a shock: it was now December 24th, 2001! He ventured out into the forum, less surfer of the net now than deep-sea diver, plunging into the Ocean of Time. It was clear things had indeed been very different in days of yore: there was no General Forum, only a “Lounge,” and the thread titles weren’t underlined…and some other stuff was different that I can’t remember. But how far removed was the conversation! The United forum was full of Pride, Hope, Cheerful Vigour and Stoutness of Heart. The football forum had feck all about Chelsea in it. And the Lounge was awash with banter and abuse, with all the old stalwarts in full voice.

Here were Charlie’s Devils, and Ed, and the Sultan of Sikh. Blythy, Weastedevil, giggzy and Dans got on their arses and posted more than once a year. And what a hive of activity it was! Twenty-Sixth Of was trying to build a fence, Davo was trying to get rid of his rubble, JSV was doing the ironing and painting his nails...And such romance! Couples were getting it on all over the place, handsome youth with winsome damsel, bluff fireman with big-mouthed slapper, morose Scouser with rude cow. What a joy it was to peruse the threads, with titles like, “My wife’s fanny-farts sound like motorbikes and smell like Wensleydale.” Slabberneezer found himself laughing, crying, bleeding and puking all at once…it was beautiful. “Fuck me,” he said to himself, “Stan used to be funny.”

Oh, there was wit here, and banter, and a feast of personal abuse, enough to make even Slabberneezer happy to be alive this fair Christmas Eve. The only thing obviously lacking was some sort of hilarious, wordy, songsmith type, substantial of proboscis perhaps, but nevertheless amazingly good-looking, great company, quick to get his round in, possibly based intermittently in the Czech Republic... Still, this being the season of Advent, the promise hung heavy in the air that such a Saviour would one day come…and that when he did, he wouldn’t be at all bitter about missing out on the good times...it was a shite forum anyway…fuckers…

Er, anyway…Slabberneezer got so absorbed in Christmas Past, that he’d quite forgotten about its Spirit, when of a sudden, he piped up again.

“Yo, blud,” he said, “It’s 2am, I gots to go to Doncaster to do a DJ set at this well fly gangsta party. Word out.”
“Is it really a gangsta party?” inquired Slabberneezer.
“4 sho,” replied the Spirit, “I mean…it’s in my mate Clive’s garage, but that’s just cos his mum n dad won’t let us do slumber parties in his bedroom no more, after we had bitches in there till 6 in da morning…”
“ ‘Bitches’?”
“Yeah, real fine ho’s…well, Clive’s little sister Fiona…but we did keep her up well past her bedtime…we was playing spin da bottle, n also Connect 4…4 real.”

“You’re gay,” said Slabberneezer.

This remark occasioned another unwelcome invitation to one of Humberside’s less salutary sporting arenas, and it took a good ten minutes to resolve the issue, by ridiculing his name till he went away.

But no sooner had the Spirit of Christmas Past departed (for Doncaster), than another took his place…